Not a nice woman to know

My birthday was like any other day. We woke up to Mia’s babbling at 5.30am. Unlike when she was a ‘new’ baby and had me sprinting out of bed, her morning babble got the usual reaction from me. I slunk deeper under the doona hoping she would perhaps go back to sleep. I hope every morning. Every morning she continues the gibberish till she realises that no one has responded to her yet. Then there are a series of grumpy, staccato bub-bub-bub-bubs followed by a screech. BAAAARGH. It is an imperial command for us to respond without any further delay. I slink lower and Partner happily goes into her room, changes her, cuddles her and then brings her into our bedroom. My birthday was pretty much the same except that Partner entered the room dancing with his daughter in his arms and singing Happy Birthday. Mia thought it was a much better start to the morning and responded gleefully. Bub-bub-bub-bubbab-BUB!

Diwali with roses

How many times have you had someone do you a good turn out of the blue? And how often have you wondered if there was a selfish motive behind the deed?

If you've never doubted the motive, lordie, you must be really naive. Or a genuinely nice person (who thinks nice of others as well). I'm neither naive nor nice and usually view good deeds and their doers with some suspicion. I am, however, trying to believe in people more. And sometimes, thankfully, there is reason to.

Quick update

Don't have access to the internet yet, shifted home four days back. Sorry about not putting up the Mother's Day post, should be up once I am connected.

Had routine prenatal check recently, baby doing fine, touch wood. Other than that... kind of zapped. Low on Vit D, iron levels dismal. Maybe gestational diabetes. And, cervical cancer scare. Pre-cancerous cells, awaiting results and operation dates. Shocked. Still.

It's not cancer yet. But somehow, just the word is very scary. More details later.

Paranoia

I didn't know her in college. But I saw a picture where she had the kind of waist-line I could kill for. And had I known her then, perhaps would have hated her for it. I got to know her -- not really -- through her blog. Even went to her house for dinner once with Partner. And I remember her Brat. He had that smile that makes you want to smile. No matter how pissed off you are. Sometimes her posts piss me off. I will not go into reasons now. Sometimes they echo what I think. Sometimes they make me wonder about the starkness with which she writes. I don't think she is perfect, but if there's someone flawed doing a damn good job of things -- fumbling, learning, screaming, loving -- perhaps it's her. Especially since we are the same age and she has two children. I loved this post. Not because of the happy ending but because it scared me to bits.

We are pregnant

Why am I writing this, writing here? That’s the question I’ve asked the umpteen times I’ve tried blogging and haven’t. Each time I haven’t been certain of the answer and so haven’t bothered to write. I’ve sat and played game after game of online monopoly (pogo.com), tried the same campaign on Age of Empires at various difficulty levels, surfed through various websites…Done everything but blog. Either I’ve not known why I want to write – not what, never what – or someone else has said it better than I would, could. There’s no dearth of opinions, I’ve always had them by the truckloads, there’s just a sense of… Can’t-be-bothered. There’s so much that’s happened. It made the last year go by so fast, it seems I went straight from 2008 to 2010. Perhaps my not wanting to write was a way of dealing with so many new things, adjustments, changes. Perhaps. So many remember-it-lifelong events, moments. So many that at times you (and I) forgot them in an instant unless it had a Facebook album dedicated to it.

Oh god

Just wondering. Do you pray because you believe or do you pray because you're scared that if you don't, something/someone will punish you (sort of just to prove a point)?

Something like, God: "Haha, so you don't believe I exist? How about this and this and this..."

(Like those movies/books where he-who-didn't-believe finally had god proven to him in really nasty ways? Like being struck by lightening on a bright summer day?)

Happy Pujo!

And on this Durga pujo I realise that Mohammad was always meant to go to the mountain. Always, even if it meant on youtube.com. Almost three years after an emotionally distraught denouncement of Durga, this Mohammad came crawling back... or trawling back. It was a friend's status update on Facebook, "That time of the year, waiting for the sound of the dhak," that got me by the gut and twisted so hard, I had to hear the dhak for myself.

I've never had the padha (colony/street) experience when growing up. Never been part of a 'cultural committee' that puts together the Durga pujo, of kids who participate in the evenings' entertainment, of young girls who help their mothers prepare stuff. I've always been the 'only visiting' variety. I've pandal-hopped with my parents, bowed and prayed before various idols and gone home. I've also never been in Calcutta/Kolkata for a pujo.

The most spectacular pujo and Ma-er mukh* I remember is from a pandal in west Delhi's Nivedita Colony. I was perhaps 12 years old and she was beautiful. We also had the most amazing kosha mangsho. What had captivated me though was the dhunuchi dancers and the trance inducing beats of the dhak they danced to. The girls were older, perhaps 18, amazingly graceful in their wide-padh sarees and they danced with so much rhythm, so much beauty... I wanted to join them. We didn't watch to see the whole thing because... for various reasons.

Ever since -- at different ages -- I've had a favourite dream sequence of doing a kickass dhunuchi dance, in a lost temple by myself with the most-beautiful Durga idol, huge torches on the walls and the biggest, loudest dhaks ever. I am in a white-sari-with-lal-border, a huge bindi, lots of kajal, hair open, sheathed in perspiration and I don't have a care in the world or awareness of anyone or anything else. And no one can stop me, laugh at me, ask me to go back home and I have no inhibitions about how I look or how my body moves. I'm aware only of the dhak that leads me. And I dance and jump and twirl and leap and collapse in a heap. I'm forgiven. Very filmi but I am very filmi and I love it and I love the dream and each time I hear the dhak, I know I'm going to dream again. (grin)

(Click for details about pujo in Melbourne --->)
The Nivedita Colony pujo is the last 'proper' pujo I remember. The next was in Kalimpong, me 14 in 'love' with a Bengali boy of the same age. And we all met at the pandal, he met my parents too and I hoped in my heart that he would be the man I marry. Ha ha, so silly, so innocent. Of course soon after I found out he was chasing a girl two years older, very beautiful, very fair etc. I don't recollect being heartbroken, I was definitely furious.

The subsequent Durga pujos are fuzzy, the ones in Amritsar involved going to the Army-arranged pujo, nothing spectacular, but the bhog as usual was delicious. Then I was in Delhi, the first year without my parents, in 'love' again, 21-years-old, standing before Ma's idol in Chittaranjan Park with much-older boyfriend, me a two-year-old journalist, dreaming of making a difference and happy I had a man and a career. The boyfriend had his wallet pickpocketed. And of course the relationship ended with much learning and serious heartbreak.

Repeat that story -- without the pickpocketing -- over five more years till 2006. The earth moved, I had many experiences I'd never intended having and my personal resume read of things that had earlier been on the list of bad things that could happen to me. Strangely -- and almost scripted -- the culmination was around Pujo time. So I told myself (and Durga), I wouldn't see her face again. Ever. I didn't go for pushpanjali. Didn't return phonecalls or 'happy pujo' wishes and avoided Durga. I tried sneaking a peek at her in newspapers yet eerily enough and despite the usual coverage in the media, I couldn't see her face that year. Not even a picture.

2007, due to stranger circumstances I was back at the Chit Park pandal. And I ran away. And life changed drastically and put me in Melbourne before the next year's pujo. I cried a lot last year. Didn't do anything on pujo, sat at home, blogged (of course) and cursed my stupidity at various levels. It was same with every other Indian festival in 2008. But I did promise not to repeat it in 2009. I might have left India but I don't want to leave India behind me.

I am not ashamed of my country. I am not confused about who I am and I know what I want. If those experiences will not just 'happen' to me, I shall seek them out. So this year, I should be at Oakleigh Street on October 4th. And maybe, I'll have a little dance with the dhak.

Happy Pujo all of you, particularly the ones outside India. Warm hugs and good wishes. And see this video, it is so, so beautiful. Many thanks to the creators.
*Ma-er mukh: Mother's face, reference to the face of Durga
PS: For the over-enlightened, non-Indians who'd wonder why Indians pray to gods with many arms, it's the same reason why say, Catholics pray to someone who turned water into wine.

An Indian in Melbourne

They all sit and discuss what they're working on.

The big man with his big voice and bigger smile was right there outside Melbourne Central, selling The Big Issue. He is standing before a poster of a model in a pair of slimming jeans. The model looks expectant, hoping someone would rip the jeans off. "Too skinny, not that pretty and has no tits," agreed two boys with so many pimples you couldn't make out the rest of their face.

The young couple passes them. The Japanese girl huddled into herself, shielding her chest from the biting wind. Her super legs erupted into pointed goose-bumps as her tiny denim shorts rode up her butt curve. She led her cute boyfriend who couldn't see clearly. His super-shiny, super-straight hair in that shaggy cut kept getting into his eyes. They run and cross the road, laughing, oblivious to the tram driver who looks furious. Love gives a fuck.

The Chinese woman nearly knocked over the magazine stand. It's a slope there and her little trolley was so heavy. Full of groceries for her daughter-in-law who allows her to live with them. She has the garage and she loves it. It's much better than the old age home.

The Indian girl walks by, sashaying in her dark green knee-high boots. She takes the perfect steps, toe before the heel and her butt moves seductively. There's so much make-up, it's almost like camouflage. Some Indian boys distributing pamphlets stop her, extending their hands to hand her one. She refuses and the vigorous shake of her head spoils her choreography. Her heel gets stuck in a pavement crack, she stumbles. "I am from Maldives, not interested," she says as they ask her if she needs help.

The Pakistani girl, all beautiful skin and lovely eyes and lovelier hair rages about the inequity of the legal system. Of how she needs to go back. On how she needs to change things. Her partner, chain smoking the fifth cigarette, advises her not to get killed. She declares she is not stupid.

The other Indian girl watches, realising that if she breathes she won't be able to pull her tummy in. Cursing that the wind will make her hair look all dry. Wondering if any story, particularly her story, matters to anyone. Then she spots a sign that smiles, "Hot hash browns", it says. She thanks god that food loves her and tries a chocolate she's never eaten before.

They all sit and discuss what they're working on. She says she wants to write about women's issues and equality. Another rolls her eyes and says, "We have voting rights and can wear what we want to. Feminism is so boring."

Things I have to do

Recently we saw Pixar's latest animated feature, Up. It was the second time I was watching a movie in 3D, the first being Spy Kids-Game Over. As a 3D and movie-watching experience, Up beat Game Over hands down.

Better effects, much better storyline, absolutely adorable characters and complete involvement for me as the audience. I really loved Up. It's a bit strange since when I had first seen the trailer -- before the screening of Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds -- my reaction had been "Duh, who wants to see a movie about a 70-year-old widower?" I am really glad that I was proven absolutely wrong.

I've always had a soft-spot for animated movies and those that are dubbed kiddie-flicks. What I enjoy about these movies is the lack of pretense. They all want to entertain you... Yes, there are messages in the movie, but I appreciate it that the messages are woven into the stories much better than those in 'adult' movies. Up is a total entertainer, whether you watch it alone, with your partner or with the entire family. It had me bawling -- but I bawl easily in movies -- in the first 10 minutes and then completely took me along for a laugh ride soon after. Even Partner, who is not always up for 'kiddie' movies (he refused go for Coraline), was smiling through Up and came out of the theatre happy as well. Other than the antics of the characters, the sheer brilliance of the 3D effects and the all the action in the movie, I related to some bits of Up in a really, personal way.

A week or so back I wrote a post on how I'm feeling that there's something big about to happen but I have no idea what... I've been stewing over it for a fair while now. When I stew, I get grumpy with people, feel unmotivated and I'm generally unpleasant. In other words, I'm not the best of company. Browsing through websites yesterday, I came across Up again. The message hit home.

Up talks about having a big adventure in life. Rather how we all wait for that something big to strike, to exhilirate and thrill us and to change our lives. I know I'm waiting. Waiting for a number of things to happen before I can say, "Yes, I'm happy now." And while I wait... I stew and I ignore all the little things around me.

Will I be truly happy only if I get a book published? I think I do a good job of keeping my house beautiful, I'm good with plants, getting better with cooking... But I often forget to be happy about those things because I am waiting for THE break. Will I be truly happy if I get married? And yet, I often forget to appreciate that I have a truly loving relationship, in fact, almost what I'd visusalised a "happy" relationship to be.

Will I be truly happy if I get a job? Of course that would mean earning money of my own... but to do what? Rather, what is it that I can't do now? A job would perhaps mean a sense of personal ratification, of putting a 'value' to my self worth in dollars. But am I not worth anything if I don't have a job or can't get one? Hmm. Ok, honestly, before making a big statement on that one, perhaps I need to sort out issues of self-worth within my head. :)

The point being -- and the message in Up -- is that we get so caught up in defining the big things that define happiness that we completely overlook the smaller things. We don't even notice them. I don't want to do that. I want to be constantly happy. Whether it means a sense of satisfaction when I sow the seeds and the first portulaca saplings burst out of my pots. Or swimming in the heavenly aroma of baked muffins that have turned out well. Or basking in the peace that spreads on Partner's face when he comes back to a comfortable, clean home. Or even enjoying the few, but treasured comments/conversation that I have on this blog.

I don't want to die regretting the things that I didn't do or didn't happen. I want to remember and cherish and enjoy the things -- however small -- that I have.

There are days I will forget and bemoan the lack of the big stuff, there are days I'm sure you will too. But here's hoping we both remember. That while we wait for the big stuff, we remember to look at the small ones and be happy about them. It will be emancipation in a way...

PS: Please do watch Up. You will not be disappointed.

Cancer

So Patrick Swayze passes away, aged 57, after two years of combating pancreatic cancer. One of the Aussie TV channels here showed a clip from his last interview (by Barbara Walters, ABC) where the interviewer asks his wife Lisa, "Have you thought of life without him?" Lisa tried to answer but choked up.

That question disturbed me a little. Scared me. Has any of us thought of life without the ones we love? There are those who lose people to sudden death. Then there are those like Lisa, who know someone they love is dying. Is it easier when you know?

Gift-shift

As far as I can remember, Amul chocolates were perhaps the first ones to cash in on the whole "gift for someone you love" idea in India, much before Archies and Hallmark came about and created a thousand reasons to buy cards, pendants, cassettes and a whole plethora of gift items.

I was considered one of the uncool ones in school, I didn't believe in Valentine's Day. According to the Valentine's Day myth, if you 'proposed' someone, they had to say yes. The idea had terrified me, more so because a) I didn't have that many suitors and b) I was rather shy then (!). After much resistance I decided it was worth the effort of making a Valentine's Day card... Only to learn I was still uncool because who wanted a hand-made card? Archies had much better options. So I scraped money to buy one only to be told there was a Rose Day and a Chocolate Day card -- and a rose and chocolate respectively -- to be bought as well...

Then suddenly there was Friendship Day, quickly followed by Teachers Day (strangely, Independence Day cards never really sold...) I didn't get a whole lot of pocket money and therefore the most prudent thing to do was not participate in any of it. It didn't do much to my popularity and till date, the record stands that I've never received a Valentine's Day card. In fact, for some unusual reason -- there's a research on that somewhere -- come 14 Feb, I've usually ended relationships/associations.

Somewhere in my late teen years, there started the whole thing about Mother's Day, quickly followed by Father's Day and Save the Dolphin Day or the belated versions of all these cards and days or a Sorry card to well, say sorry if you missed any of the days...

The cards I've treasured and went to some lengths to make were the birthday and anniversary cards, mostly hand-made. I was one of those kids who are very good at copying stuff. I was a pro at 'making' Garfield, Donald Duck and other cartoon figures and had quite a flair with water colours... For at least 8-10 years, my parents have received various versions of cartoon couples for their anniversary, which changed to various water colour flowers as I grew up.

My family knew I liked funny cards and those were the ones I got for my birthday. The most treasured cards though -- I still have them -- were the ones made by my little brother (who's now a foot taller than me and in his first job! Yay!) Like this particular one that said 'The World's Greatest Sister' -- made from an A4 'register' sheet, folded into a card, a mug cut out from one side of the sheet, coloured with crayons and stuck on the other side with a cotton ball under it. The card was magical, the spellings were perfect (heh, he was 6/7 years old) and it had a 3D effect... Now I don't make cards, neither does my brother and in fact after many years we managed to be together for his birthday this year when I was visiting India.

In Australia, it's a big thing to celebrate the 18th, followed by the 21st, then 25th and then 30th and so on... Maybe because we shifted cities so much, or because our father was strict or whatever, we never really had any memorable teenage birthdays. Rather they involved only the four of us. This year, in June, we went out, Partner, Brother, me, Dee and another Aussie-friend-in-India... and had a blast. Later in the hotel room, my now-grown-up brother said, "Dibhai, this was my best birthday ever." He turned 25, oh I love him. I am also digressing...

Increasingly today I find that wedding couples, engagement couples, expectant mothers, birthday candidates... Everyone prefers cash instead of a gift. Those who have to give gifts are relieved they don't have to think much, those receiving are relieved because at least they can use the cash instead of getting something they don't want or already have.

In fact in Australia, there is a list of gift items to select from at weddings. So as an invited guest, you see the list and pick what you want to 'gift'. Some weddings even tell you the store the couple would like the gift from. I find it quite amusing and somewhat depressing. Aren't gifts supposed to be thought out? Something that shows you know the person you're giving it to and have put some effort thinking about it? Is it still a 'gift' if you're asking for it? If there is a demand list? Or is all just a scam?

Now there are advertisements everywhere for what to buy your Mom or Dad for Mothers and Fathers day respectively. It's all the same stuff. While I've never had trouble buying mom something, buying gifts for Dad was always a challenge. It seems it's the same thing the world over...I wonder if they too would prefer cash.

What's the best gift you've received or gave that the other side really liked?
Pic courtesy: edupics

Not quite...

I am constantly aware I am in a different land. It's not fair to either 'home', to compare it to the other.

Delhi doesn't look half as beautiful as Melbourne does at sunset.

And Melbourne does not smell as delicious as Delhi when it rains.

Like today. But shouldn't the earth smell the same?

I miss that earthiness. Sometimes.
Pic: Lemon drop, flickr

Happy Rakhi.

So well, Rakhi is happy. And happy Rakhi as well everyone. It's been ages since I've been with my brother on the festival. Most times I've forgotten to send him a rakhi, most times he has been upset; and yet this year, I miss him the most.

Over the years, the ethos of rakhsha bandhan (literally, the tie that protects) has been changing. And that Rakhi's not the only one. From a festival that celebrates the brother-sister relationship, it's morphed into something bizarre.

Rakhi is celebrated by a sister tying a holy thread around her brother's(s) wrist and the latter vowing to 'protect' her. If the sister is older, it is she who 'protects' the brother. Personally, I think it's one of the few Indian festivals that actually treats women as empowered beings. In what other festival/celebration/ritual in India do you have the man looking for protection from the woman? (For the origins of the festival, click here)

When we were children, the festival meant a really gaudy, the biggest possible, the most showy rakhi -- I don't mean Sawant -- for him and my favourite cassette for me. To avoid any fights on who got the better gift, Ma would buy us both a Cadbury Dairy Milk; it was a great equaliser. As I grew older -- I'm five years older to him -- I wanted cash instead of the 'gifts'. Ma wouldn't have any of it since that would have meant giving my bro cash as well, he was too young for it.

In school -- around 11-12 years-old-- boys used to dread this festival. No one wanted his crush to tie a rakhi on his wrist and over a single woven thread, change his status from possible suitor to adopted brother. While I've witnessed boys running away when a rather pretty girl approached them with a rakhi; I unfortunately, seemed to be everyone's favourite choice for an adopted 'sister'. Perhaps it was because I was good at academics, perhaps the wanting-to-be-adopted brothers thought I'd do their homework. Hah.

Yet, I didn't have as many 'rakhi brothers' in school as the other girls did. The reason was my dad. Pa firmly believed and firmly forbade me from adopting any new brothers because, "I know how these boys think; they try to get closer by 'becoming' brothers. You don't need anymore brothers." As I grew older I realised Pa was bloody right.

Rakhi became a convenient way of getting closer to the girl you liked. So boys and the object(s) of their desire would 'become' brother-sister, tied by a flimsy thread; she would expect a 'gift' from him and he would have wet dreams at night. Despite Pa's dire warnings, nothing much changed for me though. Boys still wanted to be my 'brother' -- now at 17 -- though this time it wasn't for academics alone. My chest size had changed.

I moved out of home at 19 and since then, Bhai and me have been together on rakhi only once or twice. I'm not too sure. While my cousin sister remembered to post him a rakhi, I forgot. Always. I stopped believing in rakhi...along with a lot of things. It all came down to either "It's all mythology" or "Hah, I know what s/he is thinking."

I've just sent a rakhi e-card to Bhai. Perhaps distance makes the heart grow fonder towards 'Indian culture' and ties that bind. It was a shocking experience. While I was expecting rakhi designs... I was definitely not expecting 'smileys' wearing rakhis...and even a chimpanzee on one card. As I said, rakhi has changed. (Please see this picture--->!)

I sent a rakhi to my brother as I wanted him to know I remembered. (Also because he emailed me two days back saying "Mom says rakhi is on 5th, don't forget). More than that, after a huge amount of struggle, my little brother is finally, slowly, on the path to a happier life. I just wanted him to know I love him and miss him; no matter how much the festival itself has been bastardised and commercialised. Or maybe they are both the same thing. Much like Rakhi Sawant's televised 'engagement' and forthcoming marriage.

PS: For the few fortunates who might not know, the chick in the pic (hah!) is a Bollywood dancer called Rakhi Sawant. Some in the media call her a "sex symbol"; they never specify for whom. Rakhi's been on an Indian reality TV show where she "selects" her husband from a number of aspirants. Apparently there was no cash involved and Rakhi was/is the prize. She got "engaged" on the show a couple of days back and apparently will get married on TV. In Australia, you have Farmer Wants A Wife, where 5-6 Aussie farmers are the catch -- and a million-dollar, all-expenses paid wedding -- and girls compete for their attention, and perhaps their hand. Without being judgemental about either Rakhi or the girls on Farmer, I just wonder... Are we all that lonely and desperate that we're willing to go on air with our courtship(s)?

Your press card is invalid.

I've been bloody irregular. I am sorry. Or perhaps I am not. Why should I be? No one pays me to write. No one gives a damn either. Or maybe they do. It's not that there aren't things/topics to write on. There are. But does my opinion matter? Do my thoughts count? Who the eff am I anyway? Or who do I think I am?

There was a time I was bloody particular about my name. Now the name -- it's phonetic challenge and 'exotic' value -- have become a bane. 'Jhoomur' once, was known. Now I include 'JB' in my resume as well. Just in case 'they' -- whoever they might be -- cannot pronounce my name... Or throw my resume in the bin because of, "What the eff's a jhoomur?"

The fire within

1998-1999. I had recently moved to Delhi with my parents. So many things were new. Opinions were new, I discovered I had them, I was allowed to state them and no one said, "You can't say that because I am your father."

The biggest shock though was calling "seniors" by their names... In the army, everyone is aunty or uncle, even those just two years older to you. In the 'outside' world, you were judged by what you did, the stories you cracked, not by who's daughter you were.

The outside world was also not as protective as dad (or the army). I wasn't 'baby' anymore, no one was there to collect me from school. Older men weren't scared of my dad to approach me. Older women weren't maternal figures anymore, they had claws. I developed mine. I learnt to use the public transport system, to haggle with autorickshaw drivers, to not trust older men, be wary of older women. I longed to validate my identity, my existence.

I wanted roots. My roots. Delhi rooted me. Hah, literally. (grin) Jobs, houses, friends, lovers, attitudes formed, morphed, lost...gained. Heartbreaks, promotions, scandals (oh yeah), pets!, vices, gods... Everything was new, everything was different, everything was to be learnt, discovered. Ten years went by.

2008-2009. I have recently moved to Australia. So many things are new. Opinions are new, I have had them, I am changing some of them. I'm learning to respect other opinions as well. Of course, sometimes I forget. It's funny how from discovering you have opinions, we grow so possessive about them to let go...

The biggest shock was calling someone else's parents by their names. Toughest was calling Partner's parents by their names. Strange was when at times Partner would refer to his parents by their name!

The world outside India (and the media) is not the same. I am judged by how I adjust, what I learn and un-learn, by what I bring to the plate... Not by the stories I've done, the bylines I collected or who's girlfriend/wife I am. Both my press card and my Indian driving license mean nothing. My passport and the 'India' on it is my identity; legally and in many other ways. So far that is...

Oh yes, I also eat cow and am not in hell.

After 10 years of working for the best media houses, I've made sandwiches for people and cleaned tables. My resume has so far been worthless; even for getting a job at a bookstore. :) Friends, associates, attitudes, vices, interests are forming, morphing... No promotions or scandals (yet). Lover remains the same. :)

I moved so much in India, then moved out of India and now... I am stepping over boundaries, geographically, mentally, hell even physically. Like piling on kilos (hrmph).

It's like a dream. Things and places I read about in Readers' Digest and National Geographic, saw movies about, read in fiction novels... Those things, places, people are real. Real enough to touch. feel and taste (er, not the people).

I am happy and I am humbled....AND we are flying to three awesome, awesome places on Sunday evening. See if you can guess them?

Up in smoke?

So today is Day 3 of no cigarettes. I think I am doing really well since I've gone without the nicotine patches as well. You are supposed to wear a fresh patch every 24 hours, but after the first patch on Thursday evening, I haven't worn any.

I will admit to fantasizing about cigarettes now and then, especially after meals. Last night for instance, after a really good meal of pork, baked potatoes, cabbage-with-bacon and baked pumpkin; all with a glass of beautiful red wine, I really wanted a cigarette.

But I didn't have any and started knitting instead. This is my first, proper knitting project. The last and only time I've knit was when I was 14... it was a scarf that was eventually completed by mom. This time it's a jumper for Partner. He has promised that even if it is yucky and cannot be worn out, he will wear it at home. I am happy. I've completed the back and will attack knit the front, arms and the neck.

I have no bloody clue how to knit the neck -- remember my mom using four knitting needles and it looking very technical -- but I'll figure out something. Partner's mom was very amused that I was not using a 'pattern' -- a book to tell me when I have to pick/drop stitches. I was very amused because I was doing it the old-fashioned Indian way: Make Partner stand with arms stretched out and measure it against him. :)

Have a nice Sunday (or whatever day it is, wherever you are)
How nicotine patches help quit smoking: Here

Baapre, baby?!

Mothers are like politicians. Their ideologies change according to their point of view; rather when they want you to agree to their p.o.v.

At 13, my mother's pet phrase was, "Don't think about makeup, don't even think of thinking about boys, only concentrate on your studies."
I wondered about Doogie Howser and when I'd have my first kiss...

At 18, she would say, "Not all cosmetics are bad. That fairness cream would not hurt you, it also clears pimples. And please don't think about boys/men right now, concentrate on your studies and finish college first."
I wondered if being dark was the reason I didn't have a 'steady' boyfriend or maybe it was because I was not slim...

At 22, she started saying, "Why don't you wear some lipstick? It adds colour to your face. If you keep your head buried in books, life will pass you by. Maybe we should put a matrimonial? Looking at boys' photos wouldn't harm, finding the right one takes time you know..."
I wondered if I would find someone who didn't mind me smoking, or who didn't try to control me, who would understand me and who I didn't have to dump...

At 27, she would insist, "Are you applying that herbal face mask I told you about? Smoking has made your lips black and is killing your skin and hair. Think about your father and me, all our friends' children are settled. Do you at least have a man in your life? We will be happy with that. But don't do anything that will get you pregnant ok? "
I wondered what was "anything"... and if everything had to be about love, marriage and how it was all bullshit anyway because all bastards cheated on you.

A month-short-of-30, last evening she said, "Beta, age is passing you by. How long will you wait? I don't mind if you have a baby and marry later; the biological clock does not wait you know."

I am wondering: Do all mothers do such an about turn in a matter of 17 years...

PS: And does it hurt when your children make you do such about-turns? Cartoon courtesy: See Mike Draw

Addiction

"Solitude could become an addiction; a canker of the soul, ever hungered for as much as it was loathed..."

(Elspeth Gordie, pg 93, in Ashling, Obernewtyn Chronicles, Book 3 by Isobelle Carmody)

PS: "...And, in spite of all the years of longing for friends, now that I had them, part of me yearned to be myself again." (Same as above)

I love to lick...and other things!

This tag -- the first tag I am responding to! -- was insisted upon by Koshy, MaxJayJay, Catmeister and Mamma Mia.

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(I am doing this on my blog BUT: (To do this, go to “notes” under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the application).

Despite having an entire blog to myself... 25 random things about me:

1. I cannot remember jokes or rather, can only remember one joke at a time, which I will repeat at every party. Current joke involves a Chihuahua and a female elephant. Those interested, shout out!

2. I don’t like men with hairless arms. Hairless chests, is okay, hairless arms….pfft (thus I cannot stand Rafael Nadal)

3. I hate four-boobs…when you wear a wrong-sized bra and the top of your breasts pop out…thus, four boobs. I consider it the biggest faux pas.

4. I am extremely uncomfortable with compliments, to the point of being rude. I think people are lying when they compliment, especially when it’s about physical appearance. In the same vein, I am even worse when I am criticised. (wicked grin)

5. I LOVE my boobs. Bwahaha.

6. I have an authority-issue…sooner or later I will hate/dislike my boss.

7. If I was assured I will not be caught, there are at least two people I can murder without any conscience. I think I will make a good assassin.

8. If I could Ctrl+Z… I would've remain a virgin till my wedding day/night. Oh well. Go figure.

9. Despite others being the ‘cause’ of the heartbreak…it has always been me who has walked out of a relationship(s)

10. I have kissed a friend’s boyfriend. :( I consider it one of the shittiest things I have done and will never forgive myself for it.

11. I use a tongue cleaner…Partner thinks its weird, but without it I feel unclean.

12. I like licking -- using my fingers that is! -- the bottom of the pan when certain dishes have been cooked. ‘Kadhi’ and Maggi top the list.

13. I used to chew my nails to little, bitty pieces. Now I do it only when I am EXTREMELY excited (does not include sex). I still consider my nails as rather, er, chewable. Hah. (thank god they don’t have nicotine in them! alarmed)

14. I get extremely uncomfortable and possessive -- I actually throw a tantrum and can lose my temper -- with anyone else working/ using my kitchen. Especially if it’s another woman, even if it’s my mother. (!)

15. I used to be VERY particular about everyone using MY name…no nicknames, no shortcuts, just Jhoomur. Now I am not as Nazi about it… (hmmm…maybe I need to be. If people can pronounce Dostoevsky they can bloody well pronounce my name)

16. I would love to give a dance performance before an audience and receive rave reviews for it. The last was when I was 13 -- Bharatnatyam -- before the then-Vice President of India. Dr SD Sharma, at Siri fort auditorium, New Delhi.

17. I would love, love, LOVE to have a horse as a pet.

18. I would love to tango/ salsa with Partner… REAL steamily. However, this will probably go unfulfilled -- learning dance is anathema to Partner -- unless we can salsa to the tunes of market movements and barley figures.

19. I would really like to get married… at a time when I and the other mean our vows. To just KNOW that I am loved, as I am. And I would consider myself blessed to have a baby, my baby. My child. My existence. I already love him/her…it’s weird.

20. I fervently wish to take my parents out of the country…make them see the world. Papa loves reading and watching National Geographic…I want to see the look on his face when he steps on to the lands he reads about… for Ma, I want to buy her everything she wants. Anything, everything and remove every, single, teensy, vestige of the childhood -- where they took everything from her -- or her youth -- where she gave everything to us.

21. I find the idea of threesomes (yes, that threesome) scary. :P No, I haven’t.

22. My biggest, biggest crush was a man at least 22 years my senior. He was one of the cruellest men I knew. He never hurt me though. Funny.

23. I can ‘read’ other peoples’ relationships. Whether pretending to be happy or whatever, I have NEVER been wrong in reading relationships. Except mine!

24. If I could choose between becoming a vampire or a werewolf, I’d choose to be a vampire (love the clothes) … who can mate with werewolves. :D Go Lycans!

25. I find it very hard completing tags…simply because it feels like an editor telling me what to do…goes against the grain!

(26... I really, really miss my Golu.)

People who I tag:

1.Mamma Mia

2. Catmiester

3. MaxJayJay

4. Mystique

5. Mad Haiku

6. Goofy Mumma

7. Mad Momma

8. Eveline

9. Dew Drop Dreams

10. Pirate of the Arabian

11. Sree

12. Eve's Lungs

13. Chandni

14. Silvara

15. Freespirit

The other names are on the Facebook note...

The object of my (des) ire

"Do you ever get tired of thinking?" read the comment. No.

It's involuntary, like breathing. Inhale thought, let it mix in the blood stream, pump through the arteries, twist together in the veins and exhale out. In notebooks, on napkins, on the margins of whichever page of whatever book the eyes are on, behind book covers; sometimes here.

Some thoughts are triggered by a song, a scene, a scheme. Some are like the past, with a subconscious claim over my dreams. The purest of those thoughts, those dreams are fuzzy... I don't know how to consciously create them. Like you can consciously create a day-dream where everything is geared to make you come out the winner. To make you happy. Day-dreaming and cynicism are mutually exclusive.

The clearest thoughts/dreams involve pain. Hurting others. A departure from reality, where always, I am the one left curled up, tired to cry, hoarse to scream. With such a tremendous pressure on the chest, it feels the heart will disintegrate and pour out of my mouth in a bloody vomit. Each droplet out like acid splattering on another's face. Burning through their skin, eating into their brain. Demanding reasons, retribution, revenge. Justice.

But justice is overrated, poetic justice befuddled. And revenge is like your own personal rancid rainbow -- of reeking reds and gory greens -- that you can run to, but never touch. So you run from it. You think you are "letting go". But the scarlet-tinged, fluoro colours are always, always there in your peripheral vision. Mocking. "You idiot! Others are reaping the rewards of your hurt. Of your heart. Ha, ha."

I don't get tired of thinking. But I tire of repetitive thoughts with no results. Of a clingy past that I cannot shake off. Because I cannot seem to stop remembering. How do I let go? ... Or how do I hurt? Because sometimes, so many times, I really don't want to hurt. I WANT to give it back.

And if that makes me a bad person, guess I am like everybody else.

Saw pseudo-vampire flick Twilight last evening. Pseudo because they have no fangs, just strong teeth. More a horse than vampire I say. Hrmph. Have read all four books by Stephenie Meyer. It's a teen romance masquerading as a vampire flick/book. So S.L.O.W. Kristen Stewart looks constantly constipated, Robert Pattison looks anemic (well, he's a 'vegetarian' vampire, snigger) and there's zero chemistry between the two. The books are a cruel joke. My translation: A perfect man is only possible if he's a vampire, i.e. a work of fiction. Hah. Read the books if you have to, give the movie a miss. Partner either groaned or yawned through it all. But at least we are even; four history documentaries against one chick-flick.

Came back home and saw Korean director Chan-wook Park's Sympathy for Lady Vengeance. Loved the movie. Completely empathised with Geum-ja Lee... what if vengeance does not liberate? What if it doesn't shake off the past? DO see the movie. It's black.

PS: This doesn't make any sense does it? Good. It's still my blog you know.

Curious co-relation between the two movies? Tofu. 'Edward Cullen' says surviving on animal blood is like living on tofu, does the job but never satisfies you. Lady Vengeance has tofu too... it signifies purity of soul. But never satisfies?